


Time to Check the Male

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But lying in the dark with John draped half on top of him, Rodney was suddenly aware of just how male John was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Check the Male

The bed was narrow, both of them cuddled up closer than Rodney really wanted—maybe that was the problem. The idea of another guy's cock or balls wasn't really an issue: they were both a lot of fun, familiar enough to be easily understood, and Rodney already knew he'd go to serious lengths to get back in John's ass as many times as was physically and consensually possible. The way John groaned and rolled backwards, hips shifting with effortless enjoyment while he sweated and whined and demanded that Rodney fuck him faster, c’mon, that’s it, yeah, now harder, _yeah!_

That part was actually pretty easy. 

But lying in the dark with John draped half on top of him, Rodney was suddenly aware of just how _male_ John was. Yes, fine, so Rodney wasn't as experienced as he would've liked with another man—experiments gone right, gone wrong, exhaustion so overwhelming that there was a hand or a mouth, no thought except _need this_ running through his mind—but he was fairly proficient at spatial dimensions. He knew that John was a little over six-feet, more if you counted the hair, and that he was deceptively lean, weighing a lot closer to one seventy five instead of the barely one-twenty Rodney had assumed. 

John was always a big man. Rodney knew this, just as he knew that he, Rodney, was technically an even bigger man—he'd always had broad shoulders and once he stopped running on pure manic enthusiasm, as well as hit his later twenties, he’d filled out to meet those broad shoulders with something his sister had oh-so-fondly referred to as a ‘barrel-chest’.

Although, come to think of it, maybe she hadn’t been insulting him when she’d said that. It was... possible. Not particularly _likely_ , but possible: she had this way of tilting her mouth up, eyes crinkled happily when she really meant it.

John gusted out a heavy breath through his nose, the way he did when he was thinking about something, bringing Rodney’s attention back. Right. So, he’d always known, intellectually, that John was a big man.

He’d just never _felt_ it, before.

John was a _man_ , from the faint musk that clung to his skin, to the way there was nothing particularly soft or curvy about him—even though he wasn’t exactly a testament to rock-hard abs, either, Rodney had discovered with hastily hidden glee—to the coarse strands of hair that brushed Rodney's belly each time they inhaled. His thighs were manly, big and heavy and hairy against Rodney’s, hips curving in instead of out, angular points of pressure as he shifted more securely over Rodney’s body.

Even his feet were manly, without much arch, and disconcertingly long against Rodney’s.

Objectively, Rodney knew his new awareness of maleness wasn't a bad thing. He liked men, clearly, or at least he liked John, and there was nothing wrong with a lack of soft breasts when John had nipples that he could twist _hard_ , hair on head and chest both that Rodney could tangle his fingers in and pull, very lightly, just to see John arch and gasp underneath him. And who needed a pussy when John was smooth and hot, whimpering with quiet intensity as he squeezed even more tightly around Rodney's cock, wanting that sweet hint of almost pain for both of them?

But lying here half under John, listening to the two of them breathe as night shaded towards pale dawn, Rodney felt _small._ He'd never felt small before, even when he was dating some of the Russian Amazons who towered over him. They were still—narrow. Narrow _er_ , maybe. Slight, compared to him, and he'd always been able to scrunch them down and fit them under his arm and he'd _liked_ that. 

"You're thinking pretty hard there, Rodney."

"Mm, yes, a downside of being with a genius. We never really stop." 

John twisted, his right cheek showing pillow-creases as he faced Rodney. His mouth was sleep-soft and very pink, eyes heavy. "I can't tell if that's you being honest or if that's just your ego. Again." 

Actually, neither could Rodney. "Hm," he said, a good, all-purpose sound. He ran his hand up the skin of John's back—not smooth, really, with scars and a couple of moles that Rodney found endearingly attractive (a sign that he was sick in the head, clearly), and a few stray strands of hair that looked much better on his chest but weren’t actually all that annoying—ruffling his fingers through the fringe at the back of John's neck. 

John’s eyes fluttered shut with another nose-sigh. “Cheater,” he rumbled. “Keep doin’ that and I’ll go back to sleep.”

“Ah, so that’s where that persistent rumor comes from,” Rodney teased. It was a struggle to keep from smiling as much as he wanted to. “It isn’t orgasm, but hair-playing. I’ll have to put that in the next issue of _Atlantis Digest_.”

“Sex makes you weird.”

It did, actually. He rarely fell asleep after sex, which pleased his few long-term girlfriends, but it brought out a side of him that none of them had been able to handle. John wasn’t frowning, though, or parsing out his words for hidden meaning. He was just smiling, half of it lost in the pillow, but still warm. Fond.

Or maybe Rodney was just seeing what he hoped was there: he wasn’t sure anyone had ever smiled _fondly_ at him, before, and he could be mistaken. Facial expressions weren’t penned numbers streaked across a whiteboard.

Stretching, John canted his whole body towards Rodney, thumbing leisurely across Rodney’s ribs before moving off to explore something else. “I thought I’d tired you out, before.”

“Was that the intent?” Rodney swallowed with difficulty, throat suddenly tight. No one had ever attempted to seduce him just so he would be a little nicer—which would’ve been an entirely erroneous conclusion anyway, since Rodney reacted to stupidity the way he reacted to bee-stings: instantly and violently—but it wasn’t beyond possibility. John had to work with him every day, after all, and the military made an art of short-term sacrifices for long-term gains, so—

Lips, soft and warm, brushed back and forth against his before pressing in close, kissing him hard, then _harder_ , full of rough affection Rodney barely recognized and a whole lot of dirty heat.

Rodney opened his eyes to see John hovering above him, balanced on his fists. It was— _incredibly_ male. It shouted manliness from the bulge in his biceps to the corded muscles in his neck as he peered down at Rodney.

“Stop thinking,” he ordered.

Rodney thought about asking _Is that an order?_ , but didn’t. It _was_ an order. It wouldn’t lead to the kind of kinky shenanigans Rodney was already half-thinking about—tangling his fingers in John’s dog-tags until they pulled against whitened skin, one or either of them panting out a pleasure-soaked _Yes, Sir!_ —because it wasn’t that kind of order, a half-joke shared because it felt good.

This was an _order_ , the kind of thing Rodney had spent his life disobeying because the only orders that’d ever mattered to him came couched in science and numbers, laws that settled naturally into place.

“Rodney.” John dropped a few inches closer, shoulders bunching in a physical display that probably wasn’t exclusively male, but still made Rodney’s mouth go dry, lips itching to suck right along the distended line of muscle. “Stop. Thinking.”

His, “Okay,” was lost against John’s mouth. The kiss wasn’t angry, but _forceful_ , the continuation of John’s voice because this time, Rodney would obey. He’d have to, John would see to that: licking away any objections as he brought his knees up around Rodney’s waist, hips suddenly aligned and _oh_ , oh, that was—

“This is called frottage,” John breathed across Rodney’s jaw, nipping lightly as he shifted them into perfect position. The glide of his cock against Rodney’s was a shock of velvet heat that made his stomach flip and then tighten, thighs trembling with the need to rock up, to repeat the move to see if it would happen the same way again. “You can do this with girls, but it’s best with two guys.”

“I am aware,” he puffed, lying, “of what frottage is.” He knew the word, the dictionary definition, but he had no _idea_ of what it meant when it was two dicks, all silken skin and the rougher, wiry curls that framed each one, the power that was John’s body pressing down hard against his own, the massed potential in hips and thighs and stomach held in tight restraint.

Purely male and so hot Rodney’s mouth went dry.

John kissed him again, panting out gusts against Rodney’s cheek. “You like being the teacher so often,” he rasped, practically _purring_ as he sped up, nosing against Rodney’s jaw, his neck, the soft skin behind his ear, “that you shouldn’t have any problem being a student for a while. There’ll be lessons, you know. A lot of lessons,” the tiniest shift in angle and Rodney stopped breathing it felt so good, “and maybe we’ll have to practice a lot.”

Rodney’s mind went completely offline, nothing but hissing grey snow as his body convulsed and came hard, all over John’s cock and his own belly. He was only peripherally aware of John’s own groan of completion, hot liquid sending after-shocks of pleasure rocking through him as it splashed over his own cock, his own come.

Eventually, John slid off of him—mostly—worming an arm under Rodney’s neck to wind around his shoulders. The scratch of armpit hair, normally something Rodney never thought about, at best, or with annoyance, at worst, was oddly warm and... comforting against his arm. Male, and familiar, if not quite from that particular angle. _Good_.

So was John’s hand, tracing idle patterns up and down his other arm, scratching lightly around freckles that dotted Rodney’s skin.

“I’m not very good at being a student,” he said. It was the truth. Rodney wasn’t good at being second to anyone, even a teacher, and preferred learning on his own.

“You will be for me.”

Rodney swallowed, mind flashing towards places his body absolutely couldn’t follow, so he pushed those thoughts away. Maybe next time. “You know, I really think I might.”

Laughing, John kissed his cheek, all guttural sound and scratchy stubble, unmistakable even with Rodney’s eyes closed, his body sliding off towards slumber. “Well, I know you’ll _try.”_


End file.
